


No one can judge them

by Nadia_Jayne



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Foster Care, Implied Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 05:49:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2610722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nadia_Jayne/pseuds/Nadia_Jayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She grew up with an abusive mother, but will things get better for this foster girl?</p>
<p>Little one-shot of a story I though of 20 minutes ago. Apologies if it's bad :/ ALSO, there is no name for the character (just known as 'she' or 'her')</p>
            </blockquote>





	No one can judge them

**Author's Note:**

> So I thought of this little 1100 word drabble(ish) about 20 mins ago, so apologies :)
> 
> As a foster kid myself, I kinda know what some homes are like, but I haven't got much recollection of the homes with other kids in them :/ sorry for any inaccuracy ^_^ (This is the AUSTRALIAN foster care system, btw)

Curled up on the corner of her bed again, her fingers pushed in her ears so tightly, she was afraid she would break them. Her door bursting open, flying so fast it cracks the doorframe and leaves dents in the wall – a perfect circle, she realises next time she looks – and her arm being pulled so fast she feels it burn, a loud pop, and then pain. She feels the clawing of nails down her arm, hears her pink and purple clothing tear, and feels the tears cascading down her face. And yet, through all the chaos, screaming and pain, she only hears two words of her own:

Not again.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

She pushes the earphones in just that little bit further, nudging the volume up, and opens her computer. She knows she’s spoiled – one of the up sides of having an abusive parent – and she hates it. Hates the reminder of the yelling and the police reports. Hates remembering the fear and dread pooling in her stomach as she stands in front of the judge and has no choice but to send her father – her good, kind father – behind bars for 5 years. Knows that it isn’t her dad – it’s her mum. Which is proven now, as the mother’s boyfriend, who has blood trickling own his face from a cut above his right eyebrow, opens her door, grabs the nearest bag, and shover her clothes into it, grabbing her arm as he goes. Her mother throws pots, bowls, even a TV remote after them, but they run.

She brings her music.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

She is in the house now. The one filled with ‘the rejects’. The kids who don’t really belong anywhere, who aren’t wanted, but can’t be returned. Like an old candy bar – the kind that aren’t chewy anymore and have gone stale and crunchy from age. She sits on the bed again, listening to the baby crying and knows that one day she will be out of there. Soon, hopefully, because she can’t bear it anymore. Can’t look the two other girls in the eye and feel happy or comfortable, knows that they judge her makeup-free face and modest clothing. Can’t look at the boys and feel comfortable to shower or even sleep before they are asleep, scared of their leers, their judgement. Because she knows that she can’t do anything about it. These kids are at the lowest of the low. No one can judge them.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

She packs her things perfectly – washing each item before packing it, folding it into perfect, small squares and tucking the precious items between the folds. Ignores the questions, the snarky comments, and continues her never-ending silence. The baby – now almost three – toddles into her room and encircles her leg with its arms. She bends, lifting the baby, and places it on the bed next to her clothes. It hands her a shirt, the top item on the pile immediately next to it, and she inspects it before folding and placing it with the others. She works through the pile, then zips, buckles and padlocks her bag, placing it at the foot of her bed. She holds the baby, cooing to it, and coaches it through a select few words. _Mum, Dad, Bub, Baby, Cat, Dog_. She likes to think she has left a positive imprint on the house, but knows she hasn’t.

She places the baby in the playpen, then collects her things. Places her bag in the boot of the car, then goes back to collect her music. Shoving in her earphones, she kisses the baby on the forehead and leaves.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

She sits on the bed, hearing the father yelling at the son. _Stupid boy, THINK!_ She fears for the child, hears the sharp sound of palm meeting backside, and counts down from five till the expected arrival of the young child. She cradles him in her arms, giving him some sort of protection while he cries. Holds him until he is sleeping. She stands, carefully moving things from her bed with her feet, elbows, knees, anything, then lays him down on her bed. She sits in front of him, earphones in and blasting music, until the early hours of the morning. Sharing the single pillow and curling one arm around him, protecting him from anything that may come in the night.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

She turns her head, swinging her arm out and around to capture and turn off her phone, silencing the alarm set to go off at 6:45 every morning. She rolls onto her back, tugging a hand down her face, and groans. She hasn’t slept well. Again. She sits, perched on the edge of her bed, and faces the boy. His eyes, glued shut by the grip of sleep, flicker back and forth and his breathing comes in short bursts. He cries out once, but she strokes his hair until the nightmare ceases and he is still yet again. She stands, plodding down the hallway ungracefully, and heads to the loungeroom, collecting her school clothes from the washing pile. She mentally ticks them off as she grabs them: Dress, Socks, Shoes, Bike shorts, Hair ribbon. She returns to her room, throwing them in a pile on the end of the bed, the only area not taken by the boy.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

The jangle of keys and the _clunk_ of the lock alert the dogs to her presence. She makes her usual beeline to the dining room, dropping letters and junk mail to the kitchen table, then down the hall to her room. She leaves her bag next to her bed, grabs her worn-out shirt and takes off her school uniform. She feels much more comfortable in something she chooses than something that she will be judged in. After all, she is representing her school. She unpacks her bag, throwing textbooks and stray sheets of paper on the bed, and leans against the wall, pondering anything and everything. Maths, Science, then English. She finds that the best way for her to work is by sandwiching – best subjects at either end, with the worst in the middle. Instead of beginning, she grabs her laptop. Looks up things she wants to. Scrolls through pointless websites and blogs. Quickly researches her dad’s case, checking whether or not it has changed. She hears it first. Similar to the sound of cars passing by on the other side of a glass door, then gradually getting louder, until she can see it. She sees the light first, flashing like a beacon of hope. Then she sees the outline. Notes the blue of the object is different to what she had imagined. She stands, ignoring the papers flying about her room and her floorboards creaking. She smiles at the face that appears and the words that follow it. Introduces herself, and is tugged into the box.

 

The magical, impossible blue box.


End file.
